


Cold

by Hopeful_Foolx



Series: Whumptober 2019 [1]
Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Kingsman: The Golden Circle, Whumptober 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-25 21:28:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20918903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopeful_Foolx/pseuds/Hopeful_Foolx
Summary: Merlins hands were always cold. For as long as Harry remembers, Merlins hands were cold. Thin and pale, every bone, every joint somehow visible, (...) Afterwards, in the silent infirmary, in this white room that was even whiter than Merlin, his Merlin, was pale, they were not moving.- Whumptober Day 1 - shaky hands -





	Cold

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go. I have no idea how long I will do this and stuff, but here we are. All mistakes are mine and I am not a native english person so there will be mistakes. Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated :)

Merlins hands were always cold. For as long as Harry remembers, Merlins hands were cold. Thin and pale, every bone, every joint somehow visible, dry skin over long fingers. Always moving, typing, tapping, stroking, he couldn’t keep them still, even if he tried. They wrapped around a gun as easy as he would hold a pen or Harrys own fingers. 

It feels like ages ago, the last time, that Harry found it so hard to concentrate on anything else, sometimes, he just had to look. His hands were always moving. 

And even that wretched day in the jungle, in that green hell in front of the gates of Poppyland, even when he was singing that song that would forever haunt his nightmares, even then his hands were moving. His gentle hands, holding a knife, then his glasses because it was Merlin who would never risk getting his glasses broken. 

Afterwards, his hands were not moving. 

Afterwards, in the silent infirmary, in this white room that was even whiter than Merlin, his Merlin, was pale, they were not moving. As he was holding them, they were cold. He tried to warm him, remembering days in the snow, walking in the park, hand in hand and Merlin cursing because his fingers getting numb so fast in the cold, his joints aching, and Harry, just holding a cold hand in his warm one. 

But it wasn’t winter. It wasn’t cold. But the skin on his hands that was not covered in bandages was cold, and he was cold and unmoving and it felt so bad, it hurt again, and Harry knew that it would not stop hurting until Merlin would open his eyes and talk to him. Move his hands again, gesture around. 

Now, his hands are different. They are covered in fine white lines, thin scars, thick as a hair, all over them. On his hands. These moving hands. 

It takes Harry two months to notice it. That the movement is different. Two months of rebuilding Kingsman, of watching his husband, yes, husband, recover and getting stronger, of finding Lancelot and encouraging Galahad and being Arthur, and finding Percival and being so busy he can’t even get a chance to talk to Merlin properly, two months of them not talking about the elepahnt in the room, not talking about Merlin dying, Harry dying, about Merlins value of his life, not talking about all that matters, two months is the time it takes him to notice it. 

It happens when he gets them tea on a quiet and rainy autumn-day. Still in the new headquarters, both of them catching a minute and talking through plans, enjoying that one minute of peace. Merlin gets up, smiling, quiet and Harry nearly missed that, because there is no sound-

And the next second, a cup shatters on the floor. The noise disturbing the silence. It breaks and Harry jumps and Merlin yelps and then he starts to curse, badly, swearing mostly under his breath, and he kneels down to pick up the shards, and the next Harry sees is that there is blood and- 

“Your hands are shaking.” 

They’re sitting in the same room, broken cup forgotten on the floor. Merlins cold hand bandaged, resting on the table, trembling, still. He wants to say “it happens” or “it’s cold” or “you haven’t slept enough”, but none of these words make it out of his mouth. 

“That they do.” And they both know since when. The words are “nerve-damage”, the words are “nightmares”, the words are “memories”, too many memories. 

And he wraps a hand around Merlins, gently stroking over the cold fingers and the warm metal band around one of them, and for the first time, they talk. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading ^^ Maty


End file.
